


Maybe It Was For The Best

by NargleAdvocate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Melancholy, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Confidence Issues, Soulmates, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love, anger issues, mentions of physical abuse, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NargleAdvocate/pseuds/NargleAdvocate
Summary: Draco never wanted this. They never seemed to be able to go down the same path.Maybe if they were soulmates in a different universe, things would go differently.-Soulmate AU where everything on your skin appears on your soulmate's, and all of your pain too.





	1. Chapter 1

Draco's first awareness of the bond when he was very young, so young that the memory was hazy now. He had been talking with his mother, and suddenly there was a searing pain across his cheek that made him drop to the ground. He started sobbing, it had hurt so much, and he was so confused. He begged for his mother to tell him what was happening, but all she could do was stare at him with a pitying look in her eye. The look haunted him. There was a hand mark bruised on his face for the next couple of days.

These incidents continued throughout his adolescence, bruises like hands wrapped around his wrists and burns on his arms and more slaps than he could count. His mother was a genius with glamor charms by the time he was seven. It stopped shocking him around the same time.

He learned why this was happening when he was nine, and his friend (or, aquiantance was a better word for the time) Daphne had rambled on about this kind boy she had met who drew things on himself that appeared on her skin. Draco, the naturally curious boy he was, searched for anything he could find about the subject in the Malfoy library. Some of the words were hard for him to understand, but he knew enough to realize what was going on. Soulmates. You were bound to someone for life. Every mark on them was put on your skin. You felt the pain they felt. Draco was confused. Why was his soulmate feeling so much pain? Did he play outside too much? Maybe his friends accidentally hit him?

When he was ten, Draco learned why his soulmate was left with so many bruises. He watched as Blaise was slapped by his new father, as he screamed in his face, and suddenly it made too much sense to Draco and he felt beyond nauseous, and so very sad for his soulmate. He vowed, that day, to save his soulmate from the bar people around him. That task, of course, turned out to be far harder than he had anticipated.

Draco started Hogwarts with a mask of confidence he was sure no one would break. He would make his father proud, and find his soulmate. It could be done. At least, until that infuriating Harry Potter stepped into the scene. He turned down his hand in friendship, and embarrassed him to no end! Yet, he could feel himself drawn to the other boy. He had no valid reason to be, but Potter was so maddening he wanted nothing more than to be the one who wiped that smirk off his face.

He didn't forget the fact that he didn't feel anything from his soulmate that entire school year.

Draco realized who his soulmate was in fourth year. He had been slightly suspicious of it before, but he had thrown the thought away at the absurdity of it. But when Potter went up against that dragon, Draco could feel the graze of fire against his leg, he could feel the scrape of the claws against his arm, and it was all he could do not to scream out in pain. He walked out of the stadium halfway through the task, unable to watch it anymore, and spent the next thirty minutes screaming curses at the world in the empty common room, with silencing charms up just in case. He screamed for his horrible luck, for his lost years, for the overwhelming sympathy he had towards Harry. This wasn't how it was supposed to work out. He was soulmates with the boy who lived and he hated the fact with every fiber of his being.

Even so, it was Harry now. Not Potter.

Draco couldn't breathe during the final task. He knew he would feel a bit of pain while it went on, but not this much. He was beyond thankful he had opted to stay in his room for the task. He didn't know how anyone would react to his agonizing screams. What the hell was Harry going through in that fucking maze?

His mental complaints ceased as soon as he heard of Voldemort's return, of the rumors that Harry had fought against him inside that maze. His confusion of what had felt stopped after he watched the cruciatus curse used on one of Voldemort's followers. The sickening feeling in his stomach never seemed to go away these days.

Draco was shocked when the next year there was a stinging pain on his hand that awoke him from his sleep. He glanced down at it and stared as the words "I must not tell lies" were slowly etched into his hands, a bright red that hurt his eyes, but hurt his heart more. Blood quills were illegal! Who was doing this to Harry? When the constant scratching stopped, Draco made a decision to write a small note on his skin, the first he had ever done. He knew this was a bad idea. He didn't even know if Harry would see it. Or respond to it.

 _Are you okay?_  
  
The ink laid on his arm and it took all of Draco's strength to not wipe it away immediately and curse himself for the idea. He was trying to talk to his enemy! This was probably the stupidest idea he had ever had-

_im fine. who are you?_

Correction: This was definitely the stupidest idea he had ever had.

_No one... I'm no one._  
_Who did that to you?_  
_Blood quills are illegal._

_it doesn't matter_

_It does to me_

_its fine_

_You need to tell someone about that_

_fuck off_

Well, that was the most civil conversation Draco had ever had with Harry.

He let it go, and continued on with life. His eyes still lingered on Harry when he passed through the halls and Draco hated himself for every second. Harry was his enemy, he had to remember that. Yet, he couldn't help but stare off into space somedays, stroking his arm and wishing for conversations that could never exist.

The battle at the end of the year was torture for Draco. He could feel the pain Harry was in, had to muffle his sobs and shakily cast a silencing charms around him. Each second ticked down as Draco pretended in his mind that everything was okay, that his entire body wasn't on fire because Harry was out there risking his life again. His high pain tolerance from years of handling Harry's abusive household did nothing facing against this onslaught of agony.

He was helpless to it's clutches.

The one thing Draco didn't expect was that he'd be the one to cause Harry any physical pain. Sure, he knew his insults probably stung him a bit, but they had no true malicious intent. Draco didn't expect, when his family fell from Voldemort's favor, that he'd be hit by the cruciatus curse more times than he'd wish to remember. Voldemort knew this was the way to destroy his parents. Draco's voice was too hoarse to speak but his mind was occupied on Harry alone. He always felt the stinging slaps against his face and the bruises that formed after his sessions with Voldemort, but they weren't from the man himself. He knew Harry was getting punished for the pain Draco was going through, and Draco was sure that was a worse feeling than anything Voldemort could come up with.

His sixth year was meant to be redemption. He was going to fix that cabinet, he was going to kill Dumbledore, and he was going to get his family into Voldemort's good graces again. So why were his hands shaking so much? Why did, when he punched the bathroom mirror without much thought, the pain of the broken glass cutting into his skin feel like relief? He had felt so much pain in his life, why was it becoming a relief?

He stopped in the face of causing his soulmate pain. Harry didn't deserve that, even if Draco did. So Draco kept with his task and tried not to scream every time he messed up the cabinet, every time he looked at Dumbledore, every time he saw the Weasley girl and Harry flirting with eachother. His focus needed to be on his family first, and anything else second. Harry could take care of himself. That didn't prevent him from sneaking glances at him during class or following him occasionally in the halls. He wasn't doing it intentionally, he swore to himself, even though he knew it was a lie.

Draco's undoing was that day in Myrtle's bathroom, Harry had burst in and Draco could see the anger in his eyes, see the rage burning through the boy (although, his eyes revealed emotions far too advanced for a boy), and Draco knew he was in trouble. He had to leave now, before Harry tried to attack him, before he ruined absolutely everything.

But Draco was too late.

He laid there, on the bathroom floor, water rushing around him. The ringing in his ears deafening. He felt the blood rushing out of the wounds and pretended not to hear when the other boy gasped, pretended not to see when the other boy fell down on the ground, similar to Draco. His mind grew fuzzy and he desperately tried to block the blood flowing out of him, fighting a losing battle. He couldn't die here, not in this dingy bathroom, he had so much work to do! He knew Harry wouldn't die from his wounds, and that thought alone almost made Draco let go of the strings of life he was grasping on to. But if he died, Harry could very well get into another stupid situation that Draco would have no chance of intervening if he was dead.

His awareness slipped away form him.

When he woke up, he was in the infirmary. Shock, than relief, than panic. The news would get out to his parents, they would be disappointed in him, where was Harry, was he okay? All these thoughts jumbled around in his head until his eyes caught on to a figure on the bed across from him. The black mop of hair was unmistakable. He couldn't help the sigh of relief that swept through him. He knew Harry wouldn't die, but the terror that had gripped him ignored that fact. Draco stood up, ignoring the searing pain in his midsection, and walked over to Harry's bed, only able to see him by the barely risen sun. He stared for a few moments, at the peaceful expression on his face, before Draco slipped out of the infirmary, leaving the other boy alone.

Days turned into week and weeks into months. Draco avoided Harry like the plague, even if his heart was begging him to turn around and answer every question Harry had. Harry knew they were soulmates now. That fact was undeniable. He also knew that he would be sacraficing both of their lives if he approached him for conversation. He needed to focus on the cabinet. He needed to restore his family's honor. He reminded himself of this everyday as his hands shaked and he wept silently at his stolen future.

He stared at the dead bird on the base of the cabinet and pretended that the sight didn't horrify him.

Suddenly, he was pointing his wand as Dumbledore's face, hands shaking just as they had been doing for weeks. He stared into the old man's eyes and wanted nothing more than to run away from this life, to take up Dumbledore's offer of help. But he was trapped, he knew that, and the jeers of the Death Eaters behind him only confirmed his helplessness. He almost cried out in relief when Snape took over his job for him. He didn't know if he could live with himself if he killed someone. He didn't know if he could live with himself if he killed Harry's idol.

His seventh year was his worst nightmare. He played the good little death eater, pretended he took pleasure in the new way of life, but as he stared at the freshly tortured and killed innocent people, all he could focus on was his churning stomach. This wasn't what he wanted.

Draco only knew Harry was alive by his pain, which was the worst irony he had ever seen. He was always afraid that the pain he was feeling was Harry's death. The next pain sprouted a little bit of relief before it planted the same panic. It was a cycle he couldn't escape and he wasn't sure if he could continue on like this anymore.

Shock was Draco's first reaction when he was called down to the main hall to be faced with Harry's deformed face. He was wondering why those had appeared. Thank Merlin he knew how to use glamor charms. Dread was quickly settling into his stomach as he stared at Harry, who was on his knees in front of him

The death eaters asked if it was the boy who lived. Draco said he wasn't sure. They asked again. Draco insisted there was no way of knowing, that he couldn't tell, that it most likely wasn't him. It was the safest answer, and it didn't make him suspicious if they found out it actually was Harry. He was dragged away, and their eyes locked, and Draco wished for a fleeting moment that they could have been soulmates in different lives.

He held onto that thought as he was forced to watch Harry's best friend tortured right in front of him. He held onto that thought as he emptied his stomach in the bathroom for the eighth time that week.

Stepping on to Hogwarts grounds again was a special kind of torture. The place, his safe haven for a long time, had already been infected in his sixth year, but this was a new kind. He knew there was going to be so much more blood spilt soon. He could feel his heart threatening to pound out of his chest. He didn't want to fight. He really didn't. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. And the sickening thought that he had caused this settled in his brain. He continued forward. If he died in battle, maybe that was for the best.

The fighting had started in full force, and Draco watched as bodies fell to the floor, never to stand up again. He watched the bright colors of curses fly across rooms, he watched Hogwarts collapse around itself. He hid. And cried. He was a coward, always had been, and he didn't want to see what he caused. This was his fault, if he didn't care so much about his pride, he could have stopped it all.

When Draco toppled over, he was sure someone had hit him with the killing curse. Excruciating pain flashed through his body, causing him to fall over, but his eyes never closed, he never faded into darkness. Instead, an empty pit in his heart. One thought ran through his mind in that moment: Something happened to Harry.

Draco couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Harry's limp body in the giant's hands. The entire world went fuzzy, and he barely stumbled over when Voldemort called, barely noticed when the vile man's arms wrapped around him, barely noticed his father gripping his shoulder. Harry was dead. It... It couldn't be. There was no way the boy who lived was dead. Not Harry. He was supposed to do great things, wasn't he?

When Harry jumped from the giant's hands and went into action, Draco wanted to cry from relief. He did, a bit, but wiped them away and returned his stoic composure. He was still standing with the death eaters, and every person standing opposite him hated every bit of his being, and he knew Harry did too. He couldn't stay long.

The news Voldemort was dead was one of the happiest moments of his life. It only lasted so long.

Picking up the pieces of his life was difficult. He was put on trial, but Harry of all people testified for him. Draco wanted to reach out to him, to hug him, to beg him for forgiveness, but a tense "thank you" was all Draco could manage. Harry nodded his understanding.

That was a start to a tense friendship. It was more than Draco had ever expected to deserve.

The nightmares of the war never stopped. He smiled at the letter that informed him of Harry's acceptance to become a teacher at Hogwarts. The panic for both his and Harry's safety never stopped. He got a job working at a remote apothecary. Maybe it was for the best.

Draco didn't go to Harry's wedding. He didn't think he could last, watching Harry make heart eyes at the Weasley girl (Ginny, he reminded himself. He needed to be polite now). He didn't think his feelings for Harry would ever cease. They'd forever be one-sided. Draco was glad Harry was happy. He never would be.

Maybe it was for the best.

_im sorry_

Maybe it was for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry didn’t know anything about soulmates until he was ten, when his first friend told him as they sat on the swings, about how he found his soulmate already because she was the cute girl next door, with the dark black hair that reached her lower back and piercing green eyes that intimidated Harry. His friend told him that anything on his skin appeared on his soulmate’s skin, which didn’t make any sense to Harry. He didn’t believe it until his friend showed him, showed him how the girl had a little smiley face drawn on her wrist, identical to his friend’s. It was cute, Harry thought, but there was no way Harry had someone like that. He was the freak, so no one would want to be soulmates with him.

That friend stopped hanging out with him after he told him such, and it only confirmed it. He didn’t really appreciate all the gloating Dudley was spitting in his face though.

The relief that came from the letter, the knowledge of magic, the ability to get away from the Dursleys, was bigger than he could explain. He owed everything to Hagrid, and he wasn’t sure how he could thank him properly. So he did what he was told, and it led him to stare face-to-face with glinting silver eyes and blond hair brighter than the sun. Not that Harry stared at the sun often, of course, because he didn’t need his eyes more broken than they already were. The blond boy, Malfoy, didn’t make a very good impression, and Harry left the shop with a sour taste in his mouth, but the image of the boy imprinted in his mind. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about him?

That year was the best year of his life. He didn’t have to worry about the Dursleys, he had two amazing friends, and he was able to learn magic! Sure, he had to face the bully Malfoy, and he had gone face-to-face with Voldemort, but it was worth it in the long run. Of course, he had to go back to the Dursleys, but it was only three months before he could return to his new home. His better home.

Harry first learned about how much soulmates shared on their third year, when Hermione had been ranting about the absurdity of it all. She had read a textbook or two on it, and had decided to share her knowledge with him and Ron. He had first been a little bit relieved, when she said everyone had a soulmate, no matter who they were. He froze on the path to Hagrid’s, however, when it was revealed that marks of pain were shared too, and sheer terror flew through him. With a muttered apology, he ran back up the path, into the castle, his feet carrying him up to the astronomy tower, but his mind was miles away. He sat on the ledge and stared out at the sky, and relived every moment there was a bruise or mark on his body. Harry curled into a ball and tried to calm his erratic breathing. Whoever his soulmate was, she had to deal with everything the Dursleys had done to him, and Merlin, he didn’t know if he could handle the thought. It made him want to scream, because he was the freak, and he always would be, and it was his fault he was causing her all this pain.

Every movement, every experience, he was aware that his soulmate would suffer from what he did. Whoever was linked to him must hate him by now.

Fifth year was the worst, Umbridge made him want to smash everything in his vicinity, and he didn’t know how much longer he could last without exploding. Malfoy was taunting him constantly, Umbridge endorsed and encouraged it, and no one believed him about Voldemort. So when the blood quills were introduced, he couldn’t tell if he was more angry at Umbridge, or relieved for an outlet for his anger. It was fucked up, in more ways than one, but there was a sick sense of satisfaction that came after it was done.

_Are you okay?_

Harry stared down at his skin, eyes wide, as his quill dripped ink onto his parchment. He had just gotten back from his detention with Umbridge, and… His soulmate. He was relived, excited, and… angry. He shouldn’t have been surprised, it was an emotion that lingered with him constantly, but it felt… strong. How dare his soulmate write now? Why not earlier? Who was she, and why had she waited until now?

_im fine. who are you?_

_No one… I’m no one._

That wasn’t the answer Harry had expected. Maybe some sort of hint, but no.

_Who did that to you?  
Blood quills are illegal._

Concern. Yeah right.

_it doesn’t matter_

_It does to me._

Harry wanted to laugh.

_its fine_

_You need to tell someone about that._

_fuck off_

With that, Harry threw his quill down and stalked off to bed. He could take care of himself, damn it. He didn’t need a stranger’s sympathy, even if it was with good intentions. A flicker of guilt flittered through his mind as he considered, maybe, he was being irrational, but with the covers drawn over his head and the searing pain in his hand, he wasn’t sure if he cared.

After that incident, curiosity gnawed at his mind until he couldn’t stand it. The only place he could find peace was in the astronomy tower, high above the rest of the school, where he could pretend the things that haunted him no longer existed. People stopped going up there to snog when he started growling at them, which was admittedly terrible of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when he found himself in need of the space. So, when Harry found himself climbing the stairs up to that high up place, he was shocked to find Malfoy, pacing back and forth as if he had something to worry about.

“Malfoy?”

Harry leaped back at the violent jolt Malfoy showed when his name was called. Malfoy’s eyes turned upwards and met Harry’s, carrying nothing near the usual contempt and pride from his many other interactions with the boy before. There was more, confusion, and a hint of fear? They stared at each other for longer than deemed normal, before Malfoy broke the silence. “What is it you want, Potter?”

Malfoy fidgeted with the sleeve of his jumper as he moved his eyes away from Harry and towards the wall. Harry furrowed his eyebrows as he caught a glimpse of red on the other boy’s hand. What the hell? He shook his head slightly and moved over to a window, staring out at the Hogwarts grounds below. A brief moment of anxiety overcame him before he turned back towards Malfoy, who was slowly edging towards the door. He seemed to be having a difficult time standing straight, or moving at all, and Harry suddenly realized there was a distinct smell in the air: Firewhiskey. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“That’s- it’s none of your concern,” Malfoy replied, stopping his movements. While the boy did seem to move terribly when he was under the influence, his speech hardly changed at all, which made Harry want to roll his eyes. Of course Malfoy of all people didn’t suffer the same cursed effects that came with alcohol as everyone else. That was so… him.

“Just… go to the kitchens, and drink some water.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, but his head inclined in a slight nod (or, more of a jerk that was entirely ungraceful and un-Malfoy like, and Harry would know) before he turned to leave the tower again. He stumbled forwards, only catching himself with his left hand on the wall. His sleeve rode down, and revealed the red markings on his hand. Harry glanced up to it, curious, and his eyes widened at the unexpected markings scratched into the back of his hands. ‘I must not tell lies’, in the same red scribble on Harry’s own hand. Harry’s mouth opened, ready to call after Malfoy and questioned what the hell that was doing on his hand, but the other boy was gone, and Harry was left in the astronomy tower alone to ponder on his new revelations.

Harry knew he wasn’t the most observant person in the world, but there was no denying that for some reason, Malfoy had the exact same words, in Harry’s handwriting, written on the back of his hand. He would have assumed it as a joke of some sort, a sick fucking joke that was the type Malfoy and his goons would play, but the cuts looked so distinct and real, there was no way to fake them. So, Harry began to watch Malfoy quietly from the sidelines, tracking his moves. What could the prat possibly have _that_ on the back of his hand for?

However, following Malfoy revealed nothing to Harry, which only made him more frustrated. What the hell was going on? He felt like there was some sort of sick joke going on, that everyone wasn’t telling him something, and he was done with it. He just wanted some answers, but even Ron and Hermione had neglected to give him any.

All thoughts of his soulmate slipped away from him the moment Sirius slipped through the veil.

Until, at least, he was walking down the stairs in the Dursley’s house, trying to not make any sound, when an excruciating pain hit him that had him tumbling down the rest of the way and writhing on the floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and it just kept going, until finally it was over, and he lay panting on the ground, his muscles screaming at him. His mind focused in on one thought only: his soulmate was having the cruciatus curse cast on them. And suddenly, his mind was plagued with nightmares brewed with both the battle at the end of 5th year and Voldemort’s return. It happened a few more times, the pain taking over him, before he came back to earth. He didn’t even noticed the times Uncle Vernon would slap him, to try and snap him out of it. Or maybe just to take out the anger at being woken up at one in the morning to the freak screaming. He did notice when bruises formed though, and all it did was serve to remind him of his soulmate. God, he couldn’t imagine what she was going through.

The Weasley’s house was the worst, dropping onto the ground and screaming in pain at the most inopportune moments. He tried to explain to them, he did, he owed them that, but the words never came out, so he let them come to their own conclusions, and just tried to predict when it happened so he could throw up a silencing shield or two. It never worked.

When Sixth year started, Harry was hit with two revelations. Firstly, that Malfoy was almost certainly up to something, something incredibly suspicious, and secondly, that Harry was almost definitely attracted to men. It really came about as an accident, when he had walked into Potions class and- man, when did Zabini get so hot? Or, all of the Sixth year guys, for that matter? Harry spent an afternoon just spilling over his thoughts, trying to figure out when all of that had started, and coming up with no definitive answer. It brought on a whole new realm of fears concerning his soulmate; was his soulmate a guy, possibly? What if he wasn’t gay? Harry groaned, and decided it was enough to think about planning a war, he didn’t need dating on top of it.

And, if he blushed anytime he passed that cute blond-haired Ravenclaw on his way to charms, well, it was just the heat, wasn’t it?

His task of watching Malfoy (Hermione insisted it was stalking, Harry vehemently disagreed. If it involved a person who was clearly working for Voldemort (“He has the mark on his arm right there Mione!”), than it was not stalking at all.) came to a climax when he saw the boy sliding out of the great hall during lunch, and decided it was impertinent he follow after. He raced down the halls after the blond, twisting down passageways and going up stairs, until he arrived at Myrtle’s bathroom. He stood outside of the door for a few seconds, drawing his wand out of his pocket, before busting in, pointing his wand at Malfoy’s face. Harry’s anger flared up in that moment, and he barely registered the broken mirror to the left that definitely hadn’t been broken the last time he had been in there, or the equally as broken look in Malfoy’s eyes.

After that, everything was a blur, and Harry felt so fucking angry, and a sick sense crawled into his stomach and up through his veins. He had so much anger, and he finally had a target, someone to put the flame out on. So he pointed his wand, and spoke the first spell that came to mind, and suddenly both he and Malfoy were on the ground, and all Harry could feel was pain in his mid-section.

And then, he was gasping for breath as he jolted up in the infirmary.

The plain white of the infirmary was nothing new for him, but there was a split second where he couldn’t remember why he was there, and it sent panic coursing through his veins until he couldn’t breathe. He stared into blank space, his hands shaking, his breathing sporadic, until he finally grasped a rein on his anxiety and pulled it in. He blinked a few times, the world still blurry, before he remembered his glasses weren’t on his face. Blindly, he gripped for them on the side table until he succeeded in his mission and slid the wire frames on his face. Blinking, he glanced around. It was empty.

One of the beds across from him was messed up. Pulling himself out of his own bed, Harry stumbled over to it, trying to place what the hell he was there for, until it all came rushing back to him as soon as his hands laid on the sheets. He had used a spell from a potions textbook on Malfoy, without knowing what it did, and it ended up slicing into his chest like it was nothing. He gripped the sheets. So why was he in the infirmary? He squeezed his eyes and tried to think. Then he remembered the pain that came a few seconds after he had hit Malfoy, how he collapsed and couldn’t get back up. Harry’s hands flew to his shirt and he pulled it up, flinching when he noticed the bright red lines that ran across his chest. He dropped the shirt, a tremble in his hands. Malfoy hadn’t hit him with the spell, he didn’t even know the damn spell, so why did he have the aftereffects of it on his skin? Why had he felt the pain, as if the spell had hit him? He knew it hadn’t rebounded, he had watched Malfoy collapse, watched the blood pour into his pristine button up, so why the hell did he suddenly have two scars across his chest?

The realization, his third for the year, hit him harder than the previous two. And suddenly, he was light-headed, and he sat down in the chair next to the bed, burying his arms into his face. And there were tears, and he was crying for the first time since his godfather died. His emotions crashed into him and he cried until there were no tears left, and he was just left wracking with sobs. It wasn’t even necessarily because of Malfoy, but it let loose a lot of barriers for Harry he otherwise would have kept locked up.

Draco Malfoy was his soulmate, and there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do about it.

Harry had brooded over it, much to the annoyance of his friends, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Draco, his soulmate? It was preposterous- but, frankly, it made a lot of sense, and Harry was kicking himself for not seeing it sooner. It didn’t make him like it any more than before, but at least he knew why he was always so keen on watching Malfoy.

When Ginny approached him one day, asking him to talk, he was vaguely suspicious about the tone of her voice, but followed her anyways. She dragged him to an abandoned classroom, sat him down, and began to talk. She explained that she had heard him mumbling about his soulmate (Harry mentally slapped himself in that moment) and how she had a compromise. Her soulmate had died, years ago, before they had even met, and she knew there weren’t many options out there for her. She knew Harry didn’t want to be with his soulmate, so she offered that they could pretend to be soulmates.

“You… do know I’m gay, right?” Harry could barely wrap his head around what she was proposing.

“And I’m a lesbian. But, we both need something to fall back on after the war, right? And, from an alliance point of view, it would impress the wizarding world. And besides, you’re a good person Harry.”

Harry stayed silent for a long pause, brewing over what she said. “…Ginny, I don’t know if I’m going to live through this war.”

“Of course you are, silly.” Ginny laughed as if the entire idea was preposterous, but it sounded hollow, even to Harry’s ears. “So, what do you say?”

“Give me time to think about it?”

Ginny frowned, but nodded. “I’ll ask you about it again on Monday. I understand it’s… not something to be taken lightly. And Harry? I won’t be offended if you say no, you know.”

Harry just mutely nodded, before letting his legs carry him out of the room and back to the Gryffindor tower, vaguely shell-shocked about what had just transpired. His thoughts were a muddled mess, and he needed time to think it through. But, over the next few days, the idea seemed to make more sense. He had always wanted to be a part of the Weasley family, and it would be a great way to make it official. And like Ginny had said, the alliance part could be useful, and maybe the family would finally let him give up some of his enormous fortune locked up in Gringotts. It wasn’t like he was going to use all of it in his lifetime. He came to a decision the night before. He still wasn’t sure he was going to live through the war, but the benefits outweighed the losses. And besides, it wasn’t like he was ever going to find love from someone who didn’t think of him as The Boy Who Lived. Still, there was a small flicker of guilt that flared in his stomach when he relayed his decision to Ginny, and it didn’t seem to go away every time he pretended to be romantic with the girl.

Romances stopped being a concern when he was out in the wilderness, sleeping in a tent with his best friends. Sure, it was a nice tent, but he still was in the middle of nowhere, and there was a war going on. Fear lurked at every corner of his mind and he only remembered his soulmate when the cruciatus curses came back, though not as frequently as before. Now that he knew who was actually being tortured, though, it made the pain seem worse.

So when he was face-to-face with Draco in the middle of Malfoy Manor, he couldn’t help the small gasp that came out when he noticed the bruises and cuts on Draco’s pristine face. The guilt flared up again, and his hero-complex started. Realistically, he knew it wasn’t his fault, but he was going to blame himself for every second of that war, and every person that got hurt.

Voldemort’s body fell onto the ground when Harry’s wand was still pointed outwards, and it was such an anti-climactic and mundane death that he could hardly believe it was over. But cheers surrounded him as he stared at that lifeless body, and he knew that it was over, that the threat was gone. So why didn’t he feel like it?

Harry testified at Draco’s trial. Ginny had understood immediately. He helped rebuild the castle. He helped identify suspected Death Eaters. He put everything he could into the after-war efforts, because the war hadn’t ended, not really. His hands shook constantly and he could barely spend a minute without glancing around and watching his surroundings. He yanked out his wand anytime he heard a small noise, and he couldn’t spend a long time sitting still, and he woke up screaming every night. His friends got used to the sound of his voice being scratchy, because he couldn’t spend long enough without screaming to let it restore itself. It wasn’t over, and it never would be over.

Marrying Ginny was relatively easy. He had gotten used to the casual affection, though he knew it didn’t really mean anything romantic to either of them. It was reassurance after the war more than anything. Some nights, he didn’t regret it, because Ginny was one of the most comforting people he had ever met, and she didn’t question the nights he just couldn’t bring himself to shut his eyes. Most nights, though, regret and unhappiness stood heavily in his heart, and no matter what he did to get rid of it, it wouldn’t disappear.

_im sorry_

Maybe he didn’t make all of the right choices. But, as Harry stood outside of Flourish and Blotts and saw Draco’s first book, a bestselling novel, in the window, he knew that it would be all he could offer. And, maybe that was enough.

Maybe it was for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was originally supposed to be a happy ending, but it didn't really turn out that way, did it? But, it's melancholy, and maybe that's for the best ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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